


Time to Throw the Next Stone

by APgeeksout



Category: All Elite Wrestling
Genre: Breathplay, Episode Tag, M/M, Melancholy, enemies to fuckbuddies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:54:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21842506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/pseuds/APgeeksout
Summary: “You make party favors for all your dance partners?" Mox asked, derailing his train of thought, and seeming annoyingly unruffled by the fact that they were standing so close that Kenny could breathe in the leather of his coat and the spearmint of his gum. "Or am I special?”
Relationships: Kenny Omega/Jon Moxley
Comments: 8
Kudos: 73
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Time to Throw the Next Stone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beedekka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beedekka/gifts).



**Washington, DC - 10/2 - Premiere of _Dynamite_**

"Wait," Kenny said, adding a belated "please?" when the arena staffer - probably more used to clearing away confetti and popcorn and spilled soft drinks than busted-up furniture and shattered glass speckled with blood - cast a wary look his way. 

Not too surprising, since he surely looked as crazed as everyone always said Moxley was, sweat and blood drying to a tacky film on his skin and matting his hair. She probably couldn't see the way the cut on his scalp was seeping hot again, re-opened by the way Moxley's fingers had fisted into his hair while he rutted against Kenny's hip, and he hoped he was the only one being made uncomfortable by the situation inside his gear, fast becoming an irritating sticky mess, despite the little buzz of adrenaline still in his blood and how the memory kept returning to him, effortless and unbidden, of his hips snapping taut against Moxley's body in one final lost jerk and the moan that had escaped past his bitten lip. 

She took a step back, keeping the long-handled push-broom she'd been using extended between them; nothing about her body language suggested that she was making a joke about cleaning up after the Cleaner. He put on what he hoped was a reassuring smile as he stooped to pick the largest shards of the glass tabletop from the sweeping pile and tuck them into a towel stained with red splotches that had already begun fading to rusty brown. 

"First show," he offered, twisting the whole mess into a disconcertingly tinkly bundle as he stood straight again. Straight-ish, his back and shoulders choosing that moment to give an especially sharp twinge. "It’d be a shame, to leave without taking some souvenirs."

* * *

**Boston - 10/9 - _Dynamite_ Episode #2**

Management had its perks. For all the added stresses, big and little, that came with the letters EVP, one of the better trade-offs was the Elite being able to lay claim to a private dressing room. Somewhere for them to both prep for their own matches and handle all the other details that kept the show on the rails. A space where he could shower without having to keep an eye out for the bastard who’d just winged him with a chair hosing off three feet away. 

The water pressure here was even pretty good, drumming steady and hot against his shoulders. Enough to dull some of the ache he’d carry with him into tomorrow, if not quite sufficient to shut down his brain and its loop of images: Moxley testing the bat’s heft in his hand; Moxley striding toward him, mouth running; Moxley's snarl morphing into a wince in the moment before the impact of Pac’s chair put Kenny on the floor; Moxley looming over him, bat in hand; Moxley tossing the bat aside, refusing the easy pickings; Moxley walking away, leaving him unsatisfied.

He gave a huff of frustration and cut the spray, used a towel to wring most of the water from his hair, and then slung it around his waist to go back into the main dressing room for a change of clothes and an ice pack. Not that anyone who might be hanging out there hadn't already gotten an eyeful - probably several times over, across years and continents - but Nick would be pissy if he were recording and had to blur Kenny's dick out of some unrelated future episode of BTE. (Or else, far too cheerful, with a running commentary on the exact number of pixels required to preserve his remaining shred of dignity and speculation about how much they could charge for a stream of the, so to speak, uncut footage.) 

It was almost a shame that the Bucks or a stray cameraman weren't around, because the way that he startled at stepping out of the small bathroom and right into Jon Moxley's personal space probably looked hilarious from a different angle. 

How long had he been skulking around? How much had he seen or heard? Was the curl of heat that put in his belly anger? Embarrassment? How had he gotten so far under Kenny’s skin in such short order?

“You make party favors for all your dance partners?" Mox asked, derailing his train of thought, and seeming annoyingly unruffled by the fact that they were standing so close that Kenny could breathe in the leather of his coat and the spearmint of his gum. "Or am I special?”

“What do you think?” he shot back and tried to put some distance between himself and Moxley's lazy smirk without letting him think he was backing down altogether. "You stalk everyone, or just me?"

Mox was the one who stepped away - just far enough to give the wire-wrapped bat in his fist a breezy swing. “I think this is one funny-looking corsage," he drawled, answering the first question and letting the second one ride, "but I kinda like it.”

“Oh, good. I was so afraid you wouldn’t want to go to the homecoming dance with me," he said drily and tucked the towel a little tighter around his waist, readying to square up if necessary. Though the longer they stood here without Mox striking, the less sure Kenny was that he'd come for another preview of their fight. 

“Spike the punchbowl with something good, and I might even put out.”

He laughed - more in disbelief that he and Mox were apparently _doing a bit_ here than at the terrible joke itself, and was spared from having to answer by the Bucks bustling into the room, in the middle of their own animated conversation, which ground to a halt when they caught sight of their visitor. 

“We all good here?” Matt asked, looking carefully from Kenny to Moxley to the bat and back again while Nick dropped the stack of neatly-folded merch in his arms to the cushion at the nearest end of the room’s sofa. Kenny felt the subtle tension of all four of them simultaneously calculating the distance to and reach of the long, low coffee table. How it might balance out the usefulness of the bat and enhance his sudden numbers advantage.

“Boys,” Mox said in a bizarrely cordial tone, then gave a deep, insincere bow and shouldered between the Bucks and out the door, taking the bat with him.

* * *

**Pittsburgh - 10/23 - _Dynamite_ Episode #4**

"Look at it this way: you hadn't showed up when you did, and I might not have the range of motion in my neck to do this for anybody. Call it a 'thank you'," Moxley suggested, leering up at him from his knees. 

The illumination that reached them from the other, busier intersecting hallway caught on his edges. Highlighting the definition of his arm under a sheen of sweat, the way the muscles shifted when his hand curled against Kenny's hip, tangled up in the edge of his tights. Picking out the shape of his jawline beneath the scruff of his beard, turned to copper by the faint light. 

Kenny wondered what he looked like from Mox's perspective, but he knew better than to ask, even if he obviously didn’t know better than to let himself be drawn off into secluded corners with him.

"Think you've got me confused with le Champion," he said instead, the accent on the epithet coming out more _scorn_ than _France_. Moxley's answering chuckle bared his teeth. "Think I'm kind of insulted."

"Well, then consider it an apology," he insisted, tugging again at Kenny's waistband beneath his restraining hand. “Or settling up part of my bill.” His voice was quieter when he added. "Don't like owing people."

"If it makes a difference, I didn't do it for you." He let go of Mox's hand and squared up in front of him, suddenly conscious of the way he'd been slouched back against the wall, languid and lazy and already a little hard. Harder than he should be for an opponent; too hard to disguise or explain away even if he did do the smart thing and make a break for the main hallway before this went any further. "If Pac got his tonight, then I wouldn't get mine at Full Gear. You do still owe me a fight, Mox, and I intend to collect.”

"Then let's make this a down-payment." Kenny didn’t answer, but there was no fight to speak of. This time, when Moxley made to pull the tights down past his hips, Kenny went with it: cool air and then hot breath on his skin; callused hands on his thighs; the slow swell of going fully hard in the wet heat of Moxley’s mouth.

There wasn’t really enough hair on Mox’s head to get a solid grip on, but it turned out that he didn’t need much in the way of encouragement, and Kenny ended up just bracing against the cool wall and trying not to buck his hips into his face with the full force and intensity of the tension coiling up his spine and pooling low in his gut. If Moxley was going to duck their next match, it wasn’t going to be on account of a Kenny Omega-induced sex injury.

He hadn't expected that payback between them would feel like Mox choking himself on his cock, but hardly anything had gone the way he expected since about January. At least this surprise was one he could enjoy, if he didn't let himself think about it too hard.

* * *

**Baltimore - 11/8/19 - Full Gear's Eve**

It was a truly nasty piece of work: the sturdy steel frame nestled inside a barbed lattice of fencing wire. A sharp-edged dreamcatcher. (Nightmarecatcher? Whatever. He had some time before curtain to figure out whether it needed a name. Whether that name should sound like one of Cody's ideas.) 

This might be Moxley’s blood-and-guts bread-and-butter, but if Kenny had anything to say about it, it was also going to be the best deathmatch bout he could make it. He looped another cruel twist of wire around a post, making sure to leave a hand’s span worth of space unadorned, a grip for his allies to roll its vicious bulk up to ringside with. 

"Listen. I know that this whole thing with Moxley has been a good distraction from..." Kenny looked up so sharply from the coiled strand of wire that he couldn't have said whether he was the one reacting to the way Nick had trailed off or if his sudden attention was the thing that made him hesitate in the first place. "...everything," Nick continued. 

"Everything, huh?" He almost laughed at how it somehow managed to be simultaneously both a lame avoidance of the name nobody wanted to say out loud in his presence _and_ the absolute truth. 

"You know we're always in your corner, but we're worried about you, man," Matt said, picking up where his brother had left off. "I guess this is where your head's been lately." He gestured at the frame in its wire cocoon, all tension and sharp points. "It's not a good place, Kenny."

"The only thing any of you need to worry about is bringing this guy out when I call for it." He sighed and looked away, back down at the length of wire and pair of heavy nippers in his hands. This needed focus; it wouldn't do to slice himself up before he and Moxley even locked up. "I'm fine. Actually, I'm _golden_ ," he said, and choked back a bitter laugh while his friends threw up their hands and backed away.

* * *

**Baltimore - 11/9/19 - Full Gear**

The sharp whistle cut through the stillness of the momentarily empty locker room and straight into Kenny’s throbbing skull. When he turned his glare toward the door, it landed on Jon Moxley, two fingers tucked into his mouth to facilitate a wolf whistle, blue eyes sparkling merrily. Like they’d just shared a great joke instead of a death wish.

He drew the digits back out of his mouth and rubbed them off restlessly on the white t-shirt stretched over his broad chest. “That is gonna be an elite shiner.” He squinted, and sounded genuinely impressed when he added. “A nice pair, actually.”

Kenny groaned, mostly at the general pain of Moxley’s presence, but also at least a little bit in appreciation for the corny word play. “Why are you here, Jon? You got everything I had in me tonight out in the ring.”

“Oh, now I hope that ain’t true,” he said. “I was just coming to see if you wanted to blow this joint? Lay low for a couple hours?”

Kenny’s ribs ached a little when he scoffed. “With you? Apart from what we just did out there, what gives you the idea I’m stupid?”

"Doesn’t seem that dumb from where I’m at.” 

Mox rolled one shoulder in a gesture that Kenny recognized as trying to ward off the stiffness of an old injury. Picking up on an opponent's tics and weaknesses was the intended takeaway from all that tape he’d watched, after all. With some conscious effort, he put away the thought of any other mileage he might have gotten out of the footage of a sweating, snarling Moxley, while he sat alone in his Jacksonville rental, endlessly calculating the time difference to Tokyo. When he tuned back in, Moxley was still talking. 

"I had a point to make, and now it's been made. Ready to have a different kinda fun." Mox shrugged, both shoulders now. "You’re not up for it, I'm sure I can make my own entertainment." The grin he offered landed squarely between charming and unsettling. "Not to rub it in too much, but you look like a guy who could use a good time tonight." 

“Could be worse,” he said, and got to his feet, gingerly tugging on the t-shirt he hadn't quite been able to bear against the broken skin of his back when he'd first stepped out of the stinging shower. “At least it’s not official, right?”

A muscle jumped in Moxley’s jaw, sharpening the edge of his smile back up again. “Okay. Play it that way if you want.” He took a backwards step toward the door. “I figure you’ve got another minute or two before your keepers realize Tony Khan didn't actually send for them to handle some double secret emergency, and come back here. Start fussing over you. Looking at you sideways. Or worse," he said, and paused to give an exaggerated shudder, "looking at you all sad. You want to dodge that scene, the train’s leaving.”

He should stay, he told himself, even as he jammed his feet into sneakers. While he crammed the rest of his gear into his gym bag, he reminded himself that he had responsibilities, and that the others would certainly worry. He should definitely be more suspicious of Moxley’s good cheer, he thought, while glancing over his shoulder to see if there was anyone around to notice his leaving.

He'd gone into the match with his own set of points to make. By the time he was catching the heavy exterior service door before it clanged shut behind Moxley, he'd mostly made peace with knowing the main thing he was going to prove tonight was that Kenny Omega was exactly the special brand of reckless it would take to not only get in the ring with an unsanctioned Moxley, but also go home with him afterward.

* * *

Once they’d made it into Moxley’s room - same hotel, but thankfully on a different floor than any of the Elite - and dropped their bags, Kenny surged forward to crowd Mox against the back of the door and craned up to catch him in a kiss. Best way to make sure he didn’t open his mouth and talk Kenny out of whatever he was doing here. 

For as often as he'd thought about Moxley's mouth over the past few weeks, Kenny couldn't have said what he expected him to taste like - metallic, like coppery blood and heavy links of oiled chain? bitter, like spent cigarettes and straight whiskey? - but when his tongue pushed past his snarling lips, he found the sweet and sour of fruity chewing gum. 

Mox hadn’t offered any of the resistance Kenny might expected - letting himself be shoved back against the closed door hard enough for the impact to force a gasp of air out of his lungs, letting Kenny steal the rest of his breath in a kiss that he didn’t try to evade or turn into a bite instead. Still, he wasn’t just lying back and going along for the ride; he shoved the hem of Kenny’s shirt up his back, catching a few fresh punctures in his wake, and slid his free hand down the back of his shorts, helping himself to a handful of his ass.

Kenny broke away and stepped back, not to stop, but to drag Mox forward and tug at his street clothes in turn. “Less clothes, more skin.”

“You really are full of good ideas tonight,” Mox said, shucking his t-shirt the rest of the way off. “Surprised me, you know? With the glass and the frame? I think I underestimated you some."

He didn’t know quite what to do with the little burst of unexpected pride that that touched off in him, but he couldn’t deny that it was a different kind of warmth than the heat from the cocktail of desire and bad ideas that had become a familiar part of dealing with Moxley. “For all the good it did me,” he said ruefully and stepped out of his shoes. “I guess at least it’s going to get me lucky now, if not in the ring.”

Mox chuckled and bent to loosen his bootlaces. “So, not to belabor the whole baseball metaphor,” he said, “but are you feeling more like a pitcher or a catcher tonight? Hasn’t come up before with you and me, but I can field all the positions.” He kicked his boots away into a corner and looked at Kenny expectantly while he worked open the fly of his jeans.

“What’’s at second.” He dropped his shorts, leaving him totally exposed, the feeling not all that different from the one he’d had struggling into position atop the turnbuckle in those final moments of the match. “Our shortstop: ‘I don't give a darn’. Checks out."

Mox's lip quirked into a slightly less predatory smile than Kenny was used to seeing on him. "Closer's named ‘You wanna get laid, or you want to call the twins out to tape a funny little skit for myspace?’”

The Bucks weren't twins, and myspace hadn't been a thing for years - probably since the last time Jon Moxley was rolling around in broken glass on the regular - and Kenny was pretty sure Mox knew both of those things. Knew that both of those things might get a rise out of him. 

“Let's play ball,” he said, then, “I want to fuck you. From behind. The way you keep coming up on me.”

Mox smirked again, but didn’t deny it, then reached into his bag to produce a little tube and a foil packet. He pressed them into Kenny’s palm before shimmying out of his jeans and tented briefs. “I guess the ship has kinda sailed on us swapping fluids tonight, but I won’t be offended if you want to use something anyway.”

Before Kenny could make the crack that came to him about being surprised, having underestimated his considerateness, Mox was already climbing onto the bed, knees drawn up beneath him. He stretched luxuriously, like a particularly lazy and satisfied cat, muscles shifting and bunching under his abraded skin, until he finally settled with his head pillowed on his arms and his back arched obscenely. 

It took a moment - and Moxley craning around to throw a challenging look over his shoulder at him - for him to close the distance to the bed and reach out to track his hand down his back, reddened skin hot to the touch. It obviously wasn’t the first time they’d gotten off together, but it was the first time they’d tried it outside the arena, more than a few minutes and a few hundred yards removed from the ring. It was all throwing him off his game: the comfortable bed; Mox’s things strewn around the room where he’d taken the time to settle in here earlier in the day; Mox himself spread out on the comforter with his back to Kenny, unguarded.

“Hey, batter, batter,” Mox said, sing-song ballpark heckling, and actually, absurdly, wiggled his surprisingly unmarked ass at him.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, and settled his hands on Moxley’s hips, using the grip to hitch him back toward the edge of the bed. It felt important, somehow, for Kenny to keep his feet on the ground, squarely underneath him. “Keep that up. That’s _really_ sexy.”

“Swing, batter, batter!” Mox replied, amused and cartoonish.

Kenny laughed at that, and it broke the awkwardness, transmuted it back into a kind of tension he knew what to do with. He opened the cap on the lube and dripped some onto his fingers. Moxley’s shoulders shook a little, laughing a little himself at how far they were apparently going to take the baseball references - maybe at how it wouldn’t be funny if the bloodflow weren’t being so steadily diverted away from their brains - but he stilled at the glide of Kenny’s slickened fingertips between his cheeks.

He had expected that Mox would be a chatty lay, mouth running away from him the way it had seemed to every other time Kenny had met him outside the ring, whether in a promo or rubbing off on him in a dark corner. Instead, - apart from a _now_ in response to Kenny’s _let me know when you’re ready to go_ and the wordless noises he made when Kenny had taken away his fingers and lined himself up to press his cock into him - he’d been quiet. He was breathing heavy and rocking his hips back, urging Kenny to a harder, faster pace even without the babbling dirty talk he’d have predicted. Maybe hoped for.

One of Mox’s hands bunched in the sheets above his head, and Kenny caught himself wishing he could see the look on his face just then. Still, he’d chosen the position, - had longed for at least the illusion of being a guy who could still call his own shots almost as much as he’d wanted to get off - and the view he had here wasn’t exactly terrible. 

It was weirdly comforting to see that Mox hadn’t escaped unscathed any more than he had. His back was covered with the same angry rash of punctures as Kenny’s own, though layered over a much more elaborate tapestry of faded marks and older gouges and ridges of scar tissue. There was a network of deeper slices incised across the flat of his shoulder blades that he was reasonably sure had come from the shards of glass tabletop that had lived his suitcase these past few weeks, never too far out of sight or mind.

The deepest of the cuts had started to bleed sluggishly again, reopened by the exertion of the position, of Mox ruthlessly fucking himself back onto Kenny’s cock. He leaned forward, enjoying the breathless sound Mox made at the changed angle of his next thrust, and took one hand away from his hip to smear sweat and tacky blood in a thin line down the hollow of his spine.

He wondered whether any of the marks he’d left on him would be enough to leave a scar, and somehow that was the thing that pushed him over the edge, spilling into the condom and digging his fingernails into the meat of Moxley’s hip and making his own series of incoherent moans, while he thought about leaving his opponent permanently different. Not exactly changing the world, but if he didn’t turn things around soon, it might be the closest he got. 

By the time he had pulled away and walked to the trash can and back on rubbery legs, Moxley had turned over on his side, opening up some room beside him and making clear that he was still painfully hard and waiting to come. He sank onto the bed in the space Mox had made for him, and for a moment just watched him work his fist around his cock in short, rough strokes. The tip was flushed dark red and shiny with precome; if Kenny had held out just a little longer, he could probably have made him come just from rubbing against the bedding with each thrust into him. Something to shoot for next time, and he knew already that there would be a next time.

“You want a hand with that?” Kenny had been called a lot of things over the years, - a lot of them even true - but ‘too lazy to reciprocate’ was never going to be one of them.

Mox snorted at the line, but nodded and slowed his own hand and let Kenny’s trail down his stomach to replace it. He turned a little further onto his back, and took a shuddery breath when Kenny swiped a thumb across the head of his cock on the next stroke. "Know we left the chain back at the arena,” he said, voice gone rougher even than normal, “but you can choke me a little more. If you want."

If he hadn't still been soft and oversensitive from the orgasm just past, that would have been enough to get him hard all over again. He wanted.

“Is that why you’re such an asshole?” he asked, shifting on the bed for better leverage. “Hoping someone will throttle you without you having to ask nicely?”

“Works, doesn’t it?” Mox tipped his chin up, a gesture that looked defiant, but also bared the long line of his throat. Kenny felt his own heart speed at the sight.

“Can’t argue with results,” he agreed, and brought his hand away from Mox’s cock and up to his neck, smearing traces of sweat and lube and precome into his skin as he ghosted his fingers over the line that the heavy chain had drawn around his neck, hot to the touch in a way that meant it would probably be a bruise by morning.

He found the spots he wanted, soft under the pads of his fingers and thumb, with Mox’s pulse pounding steady and hot underneath, and pressed just a little harder. Hard enough and long enough for Mox to breathe out an incongruously gentle sigh and his usual challenging gaze to fade into something with softer, fuzzier edges. The power trip was making Kenny a little lightheaded himself; he’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be so much in control. 

He wrapped his free hand around Mox’s cock for a few easy strokes. It was a little sloppy, with Kenny’s dominant hand otherwise occupied, but luckily it didn’t take much more to get him shuddering in ineffectual little gasps of air and rolling his clouded eyes back in his head. His hips jerked, and he came hard, painting his own chest and belly and spattering onto Kenny’s where he was leaning over him, taking in the effect he’d had with no little satisfaction. 

He let his hand fall away from Mox’s throat, and smeared the mess on his chest into his skin a little more before he went to the bathroom to clean up a little, leaving Mox to recover, slack and glassy-eyed and panting.

* * *

"This doesn’t have to be goodbye and good night, you know? If you want a place to crash where nobody gives a shit about your mental health and well-being or whatever, you can stick here tonight,” Moxley offered from the corner of the room, where he was crouched in front of an enormous cooler, scooping ice into a succession of Ziplock bags. “I mean, I definitely bite, but I’ve had my shots." 

Kenny shifted in the straight-backed chair, trying without much success to stretch the kinks out of his back, and scrolled back through his notifications: strings of increasingly terse texts from each of the Bucks, a wave of reactions to the match pouring in from twitter, messages from what seemed like every number in his phone. Except one.

He tapped a quick _alive. breakfast tmrw? late. my treat._ into his group text with Nick and Matt and then powered down his phone.

"Can't swear I won't decide to wake your ass up for round two - always assuming I can still move in a couple hours,” Mox carried on, crossing the room stiffly to thunk a baggie of ice onto the tabletop before him. “But I won't, like, light your hair on fire while you sleep either."

"I mean, you'd want to do that while I'm awake and alert - and probably have a ref and a camera crew - right?" He took up the ice pack and wedged it between his skin and the chair back, nestled right between his shoulders, where the impact onto the bare boards was currently exacting its toll in the form of an insistent, throbbing ache.

Mox settled gingerly onto the bed, carefully tucking several small bags of ice into his hoodie at presumably strategic points, and gave him an alarmingly friendly grin. "Now you're on my wavelength, Omega-man."

* * *

"You know this doesn't mean we're done, right?” Kenny asked, staring up at the lights on the smoke detector blinking in the darkened room. He was drained and as numb as possible - unless he broke down and begged Mox to choke him out of his misery - but sleep had been elusive lately, and seemed content to keep playing hard-to-get tonight. If he wasn’t getting any rest, he might as well do something useful, like clear the air. “Even if I stay here and you share your ice and your bed and you don't axe-murder me -"

"Callin' me a thief?” Mox asked drowsily. “Everybody knows that's Havoc's turf."

"- that doesn't mean I'm not going to call you out again someday. Soon."

“It’s a date,” Mox said, managing to sound amused, even with his voice muffled by the pillow. “We oughta sell tickets.”


End file.
